


My Hercules has Come to Dust

by elliejane



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliejane/pseuds/elliejane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for/inspired by Troyswann on Livejournal. Posted back in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Hercules has Come to Dust

My Hercules is Come to Dust

The Prince of Denmark is possess’d  
Of no hero in his mind’s eye.  
No figure that is righteous, yet stalwart;  
Caught up in battle and circumstance,  
Defending with sword a-flame  
His honour, country and his queen.  
Nor yet him, that with strident word  
And hallowed speech, come hence  
To reason with those vengeful ears,  
That forge against the virtuous and the meek,  
And turns them to a tamer audience.

No! All treasured champions of his innocent youth  
Are now torn down; for, if not a father,  
Whom does a child have worship of (except his God)?  
A father, strong in might and will,  
Benefactor to his people,  
Hideous to his enemy,  
Beloved by son and wife and all?  
Would not any son frame his father as his Hercules?  
Does not a babbling child, with stick to mimic sword,  
Play the image of his sire and defeat the writhing hordes,  
‘Til opposers are undone and right is won?

But now, the child hast all his fine cloaks of fancy shed,  
And finds mud and clay where once stood stone and rock,  
As all the strong fortress of his youth  
Is turn’d to dust and crumbled in the sand.  
The father that was all, is naught.  
Proved so, not by mere mortal man’s decree,  
But by the God to whom the humble knee did pray.  
The hero’s step sounds not in Heaven’s halls,  
The hand that held the righteous sword  
Proves false, and all is turned to calumny.

Woe! for Prince Hamet! Belovéd son!  
He is come to wretchedness and doubt,  
Paid for lively and familial love with rich deceit,  
And even now, tasked to such as will his heart be torn,  
And very soul be wrought.

The hero’s statue, strong of arm, straight back’d,  
From sword to base has crack’d.

_fin_


End file.
